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19 December 2018 @ 12:06 am
Ég flýt um í neðarsjávar hýði  
especially after transcribing far more recent paper journals that left me wondering why exactly i feel the need to transcribe all of my paper journals, i was dreading returning to journal 3 somewhat - 2000 to 2002, started a handful of months before i found livejournal and finished a year into my time here. what i'm finding is someone i am proud to witness in this way, which is good, because she could use the witnessing. thought i'd share a few entries from these early pages. more tomorrow, probably. edited somewhat for clarity, names changed for privacy, some content entirely removed.
4 september 2000

violet fretted tonight that she, who has also finished a journal in the last few days, will not have near so intense or important a relationship with the still-wrapped spiral on her nightstand. she knows as i know as do you this will not be the case. we return to you and need you, and that need creates intensity and importance. the rules of that relationship change, with them your format: she wondered about deliberately and dramatically disrupting them and i don’t think i want to push too hard on that. i tried it, it didn't fly. formats evolve enough on their own. unruled pages might be enough of a disruption, for now. there are not days or years but hours between you and your predecessor, a rarity, though not as rare as the fact i wrote your predecessor through. it gives me an authority here - “author” being a large part of that word, more than half! sister, we two are one. your cover stretched over with flesh, as is mine, though in your case this is different as one died for your cover. i write, then, in tribute to the animal that made you: may my words, the words this book gives me a chance to find, be holy, be worthy of that ultimate sacrifice. may that being who crossed over in your creation retrieve words and visions from the other side. lead me to the darkness, lead me through the darkness, bring me to the light.

and judith. as for you:

you will write. you will write here because you need to, even when you do not want to. no matter what waits on the other side of this darkness, a life has been lost for you, and to honor it you must return to the page.

home away from home. you are loved here, and accepted, even if:

        1. you are 25 and have big zits;
        2. you cannot maintain a straight baseline on an unlined page to save your freaking life;
        3. you do not keep a strict vegan diet;
        4. love does not find you easily.

write the letters to yourself if there's no one to write them to you. sympathetic magick, these secret letters may bring others. do not fret, the day is young. our eyes are wild, the day still shrouded by the caul of night. birthing is obvious, conception more subtle. i conceive of you, precious little book. we shall birth each other with time.

wednesday 6 september 2000
6:45PM b. dalton

not so nearly profound or insightful today. kind of feeling like chewed up gum with a hole in my shoe. felicia is getting her dinner, then i am going home to bundle up in an old flannel work shirt, burn some incense, listen to my new sigur ros CD and sleep... or at least this i will attempt to do.


much later/bedroom

so what happened was violet came over and we watched cartoons. followed by gel pens and lite banter. now i am listening to my sigur ros CD and no, no opinions just now, other than a firm pointer in the "not sucking" department.

few stars, cool night. we sat on the swing set steps while violet smoked her cigarette. the trees have offered their earliest hints of changing over: dry year, comes so soon. every now and then, a strange murkiness overtakes my body, some unnamed engagement to mortality, some fearful tumor vision tingles through the deepest part of my breast. it washes away with simple loneliness. 25 is not young anymore. i feel like my life should have begun.

that's not what i mean.

i don't know what i mean. if i could get my thumbs into it i could reshape it, make it something useful.

nothing useful, i suppose, is what i am feeling.

monday 11 september 2000
bedroom 11PM

rain tonight. listening to it deep into the distance. miles in the distance. the sky fills with suicide lights. do i sound blue? maybe i am. blue girl. quick! someone get me the black tape!

note to self:

must get out of this rut. not half a page into this entry and even i'm bored with it: going nowhere, going nowhere. light some candles in the rain, thunder over guitars and pretty vox drowned in reverb. four candles lit and wet hair. swaddled in a blue flannel, i kneel at the head of my futon, bent over the notebook, two o’clock in the morning. the guitars know what they mean.

water is so important, so essential an element. no wonder so much music is about it. colorless. dangerous.

she vanishes on the tide. take me alive.

        wishing to see him,
        to be seen by him--
        if only he
        were the mirror
        i face each morning.
                - izumi shikibu

oceans of uncertainty on a lonely rain drenched night. will dawn come? eventually i'll need real light.

everything clear in a lightning stroke
everything white & frozen

deep in the blackest blue recesses of this sodalite stone the light refracts, splits a million thin lines as if underwater, layering the blue as though in storm heavy clouds. white veins split the blue suddenly, lightning in night skies. so i turn this chip from the storm in thin fingers, again and again in the room's low light. it's raining again, it stops and starts. a hundred years, a hundred years go by, a hundred more and the night slips by faster - soon enough it will be three and i'll remember wanting to go down for tonight at two. there have been no storms this year, and i need storms: disruption, destruction, desecration. thunder to arouse and call to action.

how frustrating is it: to see yourself writing things you don't like and keep writing them?

how frustrating is it, to see yourself living a life you don't love and keep living it?

thunder. arouse. thunder. arouse. thunder. arise. the night splits before us with eyes. the night splits before us. the night splits and a hundred years ago a hundred years from now a hundred years and a thousand strands of pink blue and green satin ribbons in my hair. the rain falls in sheets torn to ribbons. something like that. my hand meanders the page, unclear of itself, my writing short and unevenly spaced. this no line thing? remotely frustrating, okay? not digging it a hundred percent.

rain's stopped, for now...

music: trance to the sun - cauldron street II